


As If It's Your Last

by pseudogoose



Category: Better Call Saul (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-12 11:00:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29508666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pseudogoose/pseuds/pseudogoose
Summary: Short slices of Jimmy and Kim's relationship examined through a series of firsts.
Relationships: Jimmy McGill | Saul Goodman/Kim Wexler
Comments: 4
Kudos: 16





	1. Concrete Oasis

**One  
**   
Concrete Oasis  
  
____________  
  
 _And I knew then it would be_

_A lifelong thing_

_But I didn't know that we_

_We could break a silver lining  
_  
____________  
  
The northeastern part of the parking garage at HHM is yours, and it was impossible to think of it as anyone or anything else’s. You’d found it your first day, sought it out on your very first lunch break. It was perfect--not too far from the mailroom, hardly any foot traffic because all of the parking spots on this side of the building were inconvenient and rarely utilized except for deliveries. Here, for years now, has been your singular escape from everything you hate about this job. The ceaseless buzz and beeping of the copy machine, entitled associates who treat you like a waitress (or worse)--each day around noon you inhale it all in as you take that first drag of that midday cigarette you allow yourself, and when you exhale all of the tension leaves your body with the smoke.   
  


Today, there is an impostor in your concrete oasis. You see him 20 or so feet away from your typical spot, his face obscured in the sparse light but the orange glow of his own cigarette betraying his location in the dark. It’s The New Guy, the McGill among you and the other drudges in the mailroom. You’ve heard Things, but couldn’t pick the guy out of a lineup of one.  
  
You take up your regular post and rummage through your purse, readjusting the strap on your shoulder as you pull out the cigarette, holding it to your wind-chapped lips and…click, click, click, click. The lighter won’t strike.   
  


The man has still said nothing as you dig into your purse again, hoping for another lighter with just the tiniest amount of fluid, a book of matches, sticks you could rub together...anything to avoid what you know you are about to do.   
  


Sighing, you take a few steps closer to the man, this stranger in _your_ garage, who is leaning against a concrete slab bearing a sign which reads, “Deliveries Only, Do Not Block.”   
  


“Excuse me, do you have--”   
  


He is already holding the lighter out--it’s hot pink with neon green and yellow writing, reading, “Have a Nice Day” above a three-eyed yellow smiley face.   
  
  
“Thanks,” you say, quickly lighting your cigarette and passing the lighter back. 

  
“Kimberly, right?” 

  
You chuckle dryly. “Just Kim. Wexler. And you’re...”

  
“Jimberly,” he says, not missing a beat. “But you can call me Jimmy.”  
  
  
“You’re Charles McGill’s brother,” and as you speak it something briefly flashes in his face. You know instantly it was the wrong thing to say. But he recovers quickly with a smile that, even in the dim garage, draws you irresistibly into him. In spite of yourself you have taken several steps closer.   
  


“Sorry, I’m guessing ‘Charles McGill’s brother’ isn’t exactly the only title you want around here.”   
  


“No, no, don’t worry about it. All in all being ‘Charles McGill’s brother’ really isn’t too bad.”  
  


“But you don’t want it to be your only identity.”   
  


He stares up at you, studying you thoughtfully for a moment. His smile is gone but there’s still something tender in his face. He's handsome, in a tousled sort of way, but his eyes are deep and kind. He takes a drag. “No. No, I don’t.”   
  


Then he’s stepping the cigarette butt out and righting his posture, turning back toward the entrance.   
  


“Thanks for the light,” you say, rather lamely.   
  


“See you around, Kim Wexler.”  
  


You couldn’t know it at the time but later, this image would be imprinted on your being. Faded softly in the way memories do, but clear in your mind and in your heart. Jimmy, his sleeves rolled up, his shirt unironed--in the forbidden parking spot, leaning casually against the sign which specifically prohibited it, holding out that garish lighter before you could even say a word. So perfectly _him,_ from those very first moments. 


	2. Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A first kiss.

**Two**   
  
Christmas  
  
_____

_  
Baby, hold me 'til I explode _

_ Stop thinking, what's so hard about this? _

_ Kiss me like it's a lie _

_ As if I'm your last love _   
  
_____   
  
The suite at the hotel has a patio with a beautiful view of the city just beginning to light up beneath you, and in the distance, the Sandia Mountains, glowing red in the setting sun. Howard has of course spared no expense. The view is breathtaking, and you find yourself compulsorily wishing Jimmy was here with you, like he said he would be. You check your watch for about the thousandth time that hour and turn back to face the party inside the suite, your co-workers and bosses in their cocktail dresses and best suits; everyone sparkling amidst the silvers and golds and evergreen of the tinsel and garlands.    
  
And then, shouting a greeting you can’t hear to a gaggle of paralegals, he appears in the crowd of people. You can’t help but smile at his chosen attire--his tuxedo is slightly too big, burgundy in color with black lapels, a long black tie over a crisp white shirt. You watch as he lifts two glasses of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter and begins scanning the room.   


You smooth the skirt of your dress and reach up to tighten your ponytail, deciding at the last moment to tug the hair tie out and allow your hair to fall around your shoulders in loose curls. You quickly run your fingers through it and fluff it at the roots. You’re checking your reflection in the glass of the patio door when Jimmy spots you and makes a beeline for you, suddenly looking as breathless and giddy as you feel.   
  


You slide open the door but he says nothing, staring. You are wearing an azure cocktail dress with a pencil skirt that falls just above your knees, a sweetheart neckline lined with tiny embroidered flowers.  
  


“Kim, you….”  
  


“Double fisting it?”  
  
“This is for you, actually,” he says, extending the extra glass of champagne. His eyes drift up your body once more, stopping on your face and you stare at each other for a frozen moment in time, a smile breaking out on each of your faces as you accept the champagne from his outstretched hand.   
  


“Should we toast?” he asks, and before you can answer a few of the partners are squeezing by you back inside to the party.   
  


“To not blocking the door?” you suggest, and he clinks his glass against yours, gesturing at the patio glowing with its festive golden icicle lights.   
  


“Shall we? Or aren’t you supposed to be mingling, Barrister Wexler?”   
  


“Don’t jinx it,” you groan. You’ve abandoned several good hours of study time to be here. “And I’ve had enough mingling to last a lifetime. You missed a beautiful sunset.”  
  


“Over the big watermelon?”  
  


“Excuse me?”   
  


“Sandia. It means ‘watermelon’ in Spanish. They’re called that because of the way they turn red in the sunset. In fact…” he approaches the balcony and peers out into the distance. “No, it’s too dark to see. Next time you’re looking at them though take a look at the conifers lining the top, they look like the rind of the watermelon.”  
  


“You’re messing with me.”  
  


“Cross my heart and hope to die,” he takes a long drink of the champagne. “Besides, how long have you been living here and you don’t know this? Longer than me.”   
  
“Finding my way around on the interstate here has been impressive enough. I don’t know anything about mountains. It’s so...flat, back home.”    
  
“Do you ever miss it?”   
  
“The flatness?” you laugh. “No. I love the Sandias.”   
  


“Just the small town. Being away from…” he waved a hand at the party, then at the city below them.   
  
“No,” you say quickly. “Not at all. Small towns are...poison. Especially mine. It’s sheer dumb luck that I made it out alive. Or, well, not barefoot and pregnant.”   
  


“‘Dumb luck?’ I’ve seen your whole…” Jimmy gestures at her. “Routine. This Ally McBeal thing or...Marcia Cross….”  
  


You laugh. “Not Marcia Cross.”  
  


“Fine then, Perry Mason? Look, all I’m saying is I see how serious you take it here; maybe a little too seriously, but I know you…” he stopped himself. “I know  _ you’re _ going to be the best goddamn attorney this town has ever seen, or your shithole hometown has ever seen for that matter. And listen, Kim….”  
  


A moment passed.   
  


“Well, I’m listening.”  
  


“You just look….you look really incredible, tonight.”   
  
“You too, Jimmy.”   
  


A beat, and you’re looking around to make sure the two of you are alone on the patio. At the same time you each step forward, closing the space between you. The kiss is brief and chaste and he tastes of the expensive champagne. It’s over just as quickly as it happened, and Jimmy clears his throat, you both turn back to your drinks and take several steps away from each other. 


	3. Wasted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kim and Jimmy celebrate Kim's hiring at HHM.

**Three**

  
Wasted  
  
__________

  
 _So kiss me like you did  
_ _  
__My heart stopped beating_ _  
__  
Such a softer sin  
_  
__________  
  
It was his idea to be here, to “celebrate” with the others even as you long to celebrate privately in your back booth at the questionable diner up the street and you wonder if he does too.  
  
How many nights had you sat there together at the sticky tables, just the two of you, $6.99 steak and eggs at midnight on baby blue plates? Study session after study session, which steadily increased after Christmas. You’d write careful notes for him on index cards and line them up like Jeopardy answers, rewarding him with bites of the house made cherry pie only when he got one right. 

“What is the Hague Convention?” 

“I’m sorry Mr. McGill, can you be a little more specific?” you’d dangle the fork loaded with whipped cream and crumbling crust in front of his face and he would try to bite it out of the air like a snapping turtle but you were always too fast. 

“The Hague Convention on the Civil...Aspects of Child Abduction.”

“You didn’t say it in the form of a question,” you’d tease, but you’d let him have his bite of pie anyway. 

While you sip your way through a few IPAs surrounded by the well-wishers from the mailroom Jimmy is slamming back glass after glass of some liquor you can’t identify across the bar. He’s been quiet, today, ever since you left the meeting with the partners and announced the news--officially an associate, effective in two weeks. You’d told him before anyone else, and his smile faltered only a moment as he embraced you. “We’ve got to celebrate!” 

So here you are, “celebrating,” by watching Jimmy get increasingly drunk several seats down from you, pining for the terrible diner and his one-on-one company that it’s looking increasingly likely you are not going to get tonight. You stay just long enough to be polite and when you stand to leave and reach for your tab he has appeared out of nowhere to snatch it from your hand.

“I’m taking care of this tonight,” he announces to several cheers from the mailroom co-workers. Then he adds, “ _Hers,_ people. I’m taking care of hers tonight.” 

He can hardly wield his own wallet and leaves an entirely too-generous tip for the bartender before slurring, “Walk you to your car?”

“I think you need someone to walk you to your car. Or a cab.” 

“I don’t need an _associate_ to call my cab for me,” he’s having a difficult time getting his wallet back in his pants. “I’ve been calling cabs to take my drunk ass home for decades before you were on the fast track to Partner.”

“You will be soon too, Jimmy,” you say, meaning it, but he scoffs and laughs. Pointless to try to be his cheerleader when he’s in this state--although, you realize, you’d never seen him quite so drunk before. 

He stumbles after you as you leave the din of the bar behind, and you stop for a moment to allow him to touch your shoulder in an effort to steady himself. But then you’re close, like Christmas; the booze on his breath cheap and strong as rubbing alcohol as his hand slips down your shoulder, your arm, stopping at the collar of your jacket where he leaves it for a moment. 

“I’m really proud of you,” he mumbles, not meeting your gaze. You reach up and hold his hand, sliding it closer to your breast--allowing it to rest over your heart, now beating noticeably faster.

It takes a minimal amount of convincing to get him into your car and a few minutes into the drive he announces, “I think I might be sick.” 

“Maybe we should just go to my place,” you say, and inwardly cringe at the way it sounds. “I mean, it’s closer.” 

“You trying to take advantage of me, Wexler?” 

And then your hand on his elbow at your apartment, you lead him carefully up the stairs, keeping him steady as he slowly takes one step at a time, laughing about something that wasn’t funny. 

You haven’t had the door unlocked for ten seconds before he bursts into your place, muttering, “Bathroom.”

“There, on the left.”

This isn’t how you imagined this might go, his first time here, but as you hear him start retching from the bathroom you dutifully fetch a washcloth from the linen closet and wet it, filling a glass of cold water from the fridge and retrieving the bottle of Aleve from its recent permanent location in your purse. 

You wait until you hear the toilet flush to knock and enter, placing the glass of water on the counter next to the painkillers and perching on the edge of the bathtub. 

“Not really the way I pictured seeing your home for the first time,” he chuckles, echoing your own thoughts, leaning his back against the toilet and splaying his legs apart. 

“And what exactly did you picture?” 

“Maybe a movie. I’d cook you dinner--”

“You? Cook dinner?”

“I’ll have you know I know my way around the kitchen,” he slurs. “I’d make you a grilled cheese and tomato soup that would...that would….”

He pukes again, lifting the toilet seat just in time and you place the washcloth on the back of his neck, using your other hand to rub gentle circles over his back. 

“Try to drink some water,” you say when he comes up again, gasping for air. “Do you want a ride or did you want me to call you a cab?”

“I’ll call, I’ll call,” he says, and begins feeling in his pockets for his phone. All at once he stumbles backwards into the bathtub, grabbing onto the shower handle to steady himself but it turns and immediately begins pelting them both with freezing cold water. 

You get to your feet quickly but Jimmy in his state is scrambling to stand, shutting the water off as quickly as his dulled reflexes will allow, but by the time he manages he is completely soaked. 

You’re unable to contain your laughter. 

“Oh, you think this is funny?” 

“It’s not really how I pictured your first visit to my home, either.” 

He steps out of the tub and he stands there, dripping on the floor.  
  
“How did you picture it?” then he’s tugging his shirt over his head without unbuttoning it and standing there only in his wet pants, he holds the shirt over your head and wrings it out forcefully. “More like this?” 

You gasp as the freezing water hits your head and shoulders, splattering more droplets on the tile. “My offer to drive you home is rescinded, I hope your phone is still working well enough to call your cab.” 

He fishes the cell out of his pocket and holds it up, squinting down at it as he fiddles with the buttons, still standing there in his wet slacks and undershirt. 

“Nope,” he says, but he’s laughing. 

“Take your pants off.” 

“There were easier ways to get me naked, you know.”

“No one’s saying get naked, just take your pants off, I’ll throw them in the dryer with this,” you take the shirt from his hands. “I bet you can take the battery out of that and leave it to dry overnight.”

“Overnight?” 

“Strictly to dry off. And dry out.” 

“No peeking,” he says but you continue to stare at him pointedly as he shrugs out of the wet slacks and hands them over. His legs are pale and thin, but his striped blue boxers are dry.  
  
You yank a towel from the rack and toss it to him as you carry the armful of wet clothes to the dryer, stopping once they are safely inside to remove your own wet jacket and shirt. You stand there for a moment in only your skirt, your hair dripping on the floor as you start the dryer. 

The dryer begins clattering as you make the decision, reach around and unzip the skirt.

In only your bra and underwear, your heart pounding, you appear in the doorway to the living room and step out of your high heels. You take a deep breath to head back to the bathroom--and then you hear the snoring.

“Jimmy?” It’s dark and the apple juice glow from the bathroom is the only light, but it’s enough for you to see him splayed on the couch in just his underwear, one arm draped over his eyes. 

_Strictly to dry off. And dry out._ With a sigh, you reach forward and lift his head to slide a throw pillow under it. Taking the other pillow for yourself, you lay on the ground beside him in just your underwear, pulling the quilt from the couch and wrapping it around yourself. 

The hand not draped over his face is dangling off the sofa and you extend your own hand out from under the blanket to lace your fingers through his. 

"How _did_ you picture it?" he mumbles.   
  
"Like this."  
  
"You're lying," he says, squeezing your hand.  
  
"Yes," you admit, squeezing back. "But this works." 


End file.
